Behind the Basin

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Last memories matter.

It should come as no surprise to us that Jesus, who was the most intentional human to ever walk this globe, was very intentional about His lasts with His disciples. Of course Jesus wanted to leave a few specific scenes burned on the brains and seared onto the souls of His disciples and best friends.

What does shock and surprise me, and should scare the flesh in all of us, are the specific last scenes that Jesus intentionally played out for his friends.  The two symbols that Jesus left with His followers that night were a table and a basin, two ordinary objects that conveyed sacrifice and service in community.

He could have given them a scepter as a last group impression, a symbol of power and sovereignty.  Yet, for His last lesson with the band of brothers who had literally followed him in the world’s classroom of highways and byways, He chose to wash nasty feet.

Feet. Jesus dreamed up the tarsals and metatarsals. He spoke and the bones were formed in the foot of the first man.  He did the unthinkable and became a baby who played with His feet. He stubbed His toes and likely got callouses as He logged some serious mileage on those two puppies.

One of the last scenes of his short life involved Him dressing himself like a common household servant and washing the nasty feet of his friends. He slowly went around a room of twelve dear friends, one of whom He knew would betray him in a few short hours, caressing and cleaning their feet.

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He has called us to be people of the basin. Basins imply a lifetime of unsexy, selfless service. Basin living looks different for each of us and changes in different seasons. Basin living may mean changing diapers in the nursery or soiled bed sheets as you care for an aging parent. It may mean investing in the lives of students who have little support outside of the classroom or it may mean folding laundry.

While the spaces and places where we use our basins look widely different, the people behind the basins share one thing in common: behind the basin must be stand someone who is convinced that he or she is the beloved of God.

In his prelude to his series of Last Supper stories which covers the majority of his gospel, John lets us into a few clues of what enabled and empowered the Savior’s service leading up to the ultimate Sacrifice on the Cross.

Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. During supper, when the devil had already put it into the heart of Judas Iscariot, Simon’s son, to betray his, Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his outer garments and, taking a towel, tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples feet and to wipe them with the towel that was wrapped around him. John 13: 1-5 (emphasis mine), 

Jesus lived all of his life in an atmosphere of assurance of the love of His Father. He knew that the Father had given and would give Him all He needed to do His will. He knew that the embrace of the Father whom He had willingly left to become a man was waiting for Him upon His return from His quick dash to the earth.

The love of the Father freed Jesus to pick up the basin and put down His own rights, yet again. Assurance of His place as the Beloved of the Father freed Him to take the place of a servant, even a servant who would wash the feet that would flee to betray him moments later.

Through faith in Christ’s life, death and resurrection we are named the beloved of God. We are invited, through faith, into the same atmosphere of beloved-ness that compelled Christ to the basin.

Dirty feet, dashed heart and desperate neighbors abound. May we bask in the undeserved, unearned and unconditional love of God, and thus become people of the basin and towel.

 

 

Christ’s Vulnerability in the Garden of Gethsemane

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As we approach Holy Week, there are two realities that shout from the gospel records of Jesus’s days in approach to the Cross who which he came: his deity and his humanity. Both are true at the exact same time, but as I read the gospels this week to prepare my heart for Holy Week, I have to take the optometrist office approach: switching lenses from deity to humanity, from humanity to deity. My finite mind struggles to hold the mystery of the Incarnate Christ.

When I read Matthew’s account of Jesus in the Garden in Gethsemane looking for the humanity of Jesus, I found myself in tears. Here we meet Christ, finding a hidden spot on the Mount of Olives to express his growing grief to the Father. Bible commentator Alexander MacLaren powerfully wrote, “He withdrew into the shadow of the gnarled olives, as if even the moonbeams must not look too closely on the mystery of such grief.”

He may have hid his grief from the moonbeams, but, in his humanity, he invited his three closest companions into the weight of heaviness that had been building to the point of crushing, encompassing grief. Matthew notes the following:

“And taking with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me’.” (Matthew 26:37–38).

Stay and See

The English translations don’t capture the intensity of the pain Jesus is expressing and the vulnerability he shows in needing the companionship of his human friends. The words Matthew uses to express Jesus’s pain mean “extreme vexation,” intense pain like in childbirth, and an engulfing heaviness. As these waves of human emotion (which have their own somatic effects) come over Jesus, he asks his friends to do two things: stay with me and see me.

The Greek word meno is translated “to abide, to stay with, to remain with.” Jesus, in a sense, invites his friends to join him in this sorrowful space, to hold space for him and be with him. Anyone who has attempted to accompany another through unthinkable pain (be it physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual) know what a challenge it is to stay. Our compassion and empathy make us want to get moving to offer solutions. Jesus asks to stay and offer our selves. First, Jesus asks his friends to stay, then he asks them to see.

The Greek word gregoreo is translated “to stay awake, to be vigilant, to be watchful, and to be responsible.” Anyone who has experienced suffering knows that it makes the sufferer feel invisible, unseen, unnoticed, and alone. Jesus, whose heart was not hardened by even a hint of sin, felt suffering in ways no other human ever could; yet, he asked his disciples to stay awake, to stay alert so that they could be watchful and see him.

The requests which sound so simple are simply profound. The One who created olive trees kneels bowed down in olive grove under the weight of grief, inviting humans his power caused to stand to stand with him in his pain.

We know how it goes. The disciples, even at their best, fall palpably short of their Master’s requests. Multiple times, they fall asleep. Perhaps it was the heavy meal and the wine from the Passover, perhaps their brains were shutting down at the immensity of emotion being shown by the One who was always their security and their calm. Either way, they could not and did not stay or see.

This is where we see the deity of Christ on full display. He wrestles, but fully submits (Matthew 26:39–46). He wills what the Father wills, even when it means willing a death he does not deserve. He chooses to shut his eyes in submission for the friends who can’t keep their eyes open for him in his pain. He greets his betrayer still calling him friend (Matthew 26:50). He who could call legions of angels to protect him offers himself willingly (Matthew 26: 52–56).

Staying with and Seeing Our Savior

We live on the other side of the story, we who are indwelled by the Spirit of the Living God. We know that he suffered alone so we would never again have to. We know what our sin couldn’t do and what Jesus did so we would no longer be enslaved to sin. We can learn (even if ever-so-slowly) to stay and to see our Savior.

Isn’t that what Jesus asked his disciples earlier in the same evening before this episode in the olive grove? “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches” (John 15:4–5). That is the same Greek word, meno.

The invitation remains: stay with me. Stay alert, be watchful, be vigilant, learn to see as I would see and to be as I would be.

Stay with him. See him. Savor him. Speak of him. These are the natural responses of the love he has shown us in bowing himself to the Father’s will that we might stand freely in the Father’s love.

Was Ever Joy Like Mine?: A Poetic Response to Herbert’s “The Sacrifice”

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Traditions are funny. Often, whenever I try to force their creation, they fight back at me; however, sometimes, when I am not even trying to create one, it just happens.

This is exactly how my yearly reading of George Herbert’s lengthy yet poignant poem “The Sacrifice” came about. I read it once and then found myself reading it again as Easter approached. Now it’s my own poetry tradition!

As Spring shows her glad face and Easter approaches, I look forward to its familiar lines and my notes scribbled in the many margins. The depth contained in such tight stanzas still shocks me afresh every time. The repeated line in each stanza, “Was ever grief like mine?” continually invites the reader into the agony Christ endured to offer us access back to His agape love.

Here are a few of my favorites:

“Oh all ye who pass by, behold and see;
Man stole the fruit, but I must climb the tree;
The tree of life to all, but only me:
Was ever grief like mine?…

Betwixt two thieves I spend my utmost breath,
As he that for some robbery suffereth.
Alas! What have I stolen from you: death:
Was ever grief like mine?”

After reading it last night, I found myself feeling stuck in the heaviness of the reality of the Cross and the cost that Christ paid for my redemption. I whispered to Jesus, “I am so sorry.” I imagine he would reply, “I’m not.”

Christ, who was once in agony, is now in ecstasy. His grief has been turned to joy. Redemption is accomplished. Christ resurrected. His children are coming to His embrace. These realities led me to want to write an accompanying poem to be paired with Herbert’s “The Sacrifice.”

The Relief

I heard her sobbing, shaking with grief,
She who from demons had found relief,
“I’m no gardener; I’m death’s chief!”
Was ever joy like mine?

I felt desperate hands clutching me in fear,
Shocked to see Rabboni again so near,
“Don’t cling; go call the others, my dear!”
Was ever joy like mine?

I found them locked in an upper room,
Huddled in confusion, mixing hope with gloom,
“Locked doors are no matter; let’s resume!”
Was ever joy like mine?

My tender Thomas was not within
Yet I heard his doubts, the honest Twin.
I offered my hands his heart to win.
Was ever joy like mine?

Walking at daybreak on a familiar shore,
Peter fled the boat like the time before.
Being led by an impulse he couldn’t ignore.
Was ever joy like mine?

I embraced him in a wet and welcome hug,
But his three offenses at his heart did tug.
Thrice I forgave what he struggled to shrug.
Was ever joy like mine?

We breakfasted over a charcoal fire,
A second chance to do his heart’s desire.
A shepherd’s calling he did acquire.
Was ever joy like mine?

I watched him shed a thousand pounds,
As I swallowed up the failure that hounds.
I welcomed him into grace that abounds.
Was ever joy like mine?

Forty glorious days with my friends,
Speaking of the kingdom that now extends,
Offering them living hope that transcends.
Was ever joy like mine?

I spoke of the Helper I promised to send,
The One who’d be with them until the end;
No better comfort could I recommend.
Was ever joy like mine?

With the Father, I watched from on high
As the Promised Spirit to them drew nigh,
And as they learned how on Him to rely!
Was ever joy like mine?

At the Father’s right hand, I still intercede;
For each of my children I gladly plead
Until with me, they will feel no need!
Was ever joy like mine?

What manner of love is this would walk through agony to gladly invite us into the agape love of the Trinity? Was ever a joy like ours?

The Relief of Resurrection

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Relief comes in many shapes and sizes. Tired teachers sign off from Zoom calls with a satisfied fatigue on Fridays. College students nearly skip with levity and relief when they turn in finals and term papers. Families sigh in relief and smile in gratitude when results from biopsies come back negative. The entire Pacific Northwest danced with relief when rain fell to dissipate the heaviness of fire-filled air.

The nature of the burden and the length of time it has been borne appropriately shape the extent of corresponding relief when the burden has been finally lifted.

I am certain Noah waited with bated breath when he sent out the dove, hoping for signs of habitable earth after weeks of unprecedented flooding. When the dove came back bearing a branch, I imagine there were shouts of relief from the remnant of humanity who had been trapped with animals in a floating zoo. Abraham and Sarah laughed in relief when they finally held Isaac, their long-awaited, promised son. God’s people, long-accustomed to silence after the last words from the prophet Malachi, likely ran in relief to the shores of the Jordan to listen to John the Baptizer. Simeon and Anna, whose eyes were long-strained in search of the promised Messiah, looked upon Jesus through tears of relief.

But all of these moments of real relief pale in comparison to the relief of the resurrection. The Marys went to the tomb of their beloved Jesus despairing and helpless, convinced their hopes of Him being the Messiah were dashed. Despite the fact that he had healed and saved others, Jesus of Nazareth had not been healed, but harmed. The body of their beloved who had brought life and light wherever he went was sealed in a dark, dank tomb, along with their hopes.

All the collective moments of relief from all the heavy burdens of humanity ought to be like a feather in the scales compared to the relief of the resurrection. Death does not have the last word. The fear of death that had dogged the steps of humanity since Adam and Eve were ushered out of the garden Eden was lifted with the body of Christ.

As the writer of Hebrews so clearly stated to the Jewish believers, “through the power of death,” Jesus “delivered “all those who through fear of death were subject to lifelong slavery” (Hebrews 2:14-15). The fuzzy, far-off promises of the prophet Isaiah, “He will swallow up death forever (Isaiah 25:8) came into clear focus that morning when the grave clothes were folded and vacant.

Unfortunately, we tend to forget the relief that comes from the resurrection of Christ. The relief that is meant to enliven our every step toward glory and the levity of hope that is meant to lighten our souls in the most grave situations are lost on most of us. We are so focused on our present circumstances and the problems that weigh on us presently, that we tend to forget that our Christ has conquered death and risen up underneath it, lifting our burdens with himself.

We find ourselves looking forward to smaller sighs of relief like the weekend, the end of the election season, and an upcoming vacation, and it is right to enjoy these moments of rest. However, we don’t have to swim the seas of dread, waiting for tiny islands of relief. The rock solid reality of the resurrection is meant to be a bridge of relief that enables all of our days. The resurrected Christ who stood up from the tomb is meant to help us bear up under our own burdens.

I don’t know the exact burdens you carry today, but I know that they are heavy and hard. I know that we are a weary people in a weary land during a wearisome time. I know that it feels like the weights are crushing the ever-living life out of us. But that is not the end of the story. The resurrected and reigning Christ has given is the downpayment for the the coming day of great relief. With the psalmist we can say with confidence, “Blessed be the Lord who daily bears our burdens” (Psalm 68:19, NASB).

Van Morrison, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Union with Christ

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As most of my current job description is driving my children to all the things, I have plenty of time to listen to alternate between praying and listening to music in the car. In this current season, I have been listening to Van Morrison’s greatest hits. When I get to Crazy Love, I inevitably tear up when I hear, “I can hear her heartbeat from a thousand miles.”

At first, I thought this somatic response strange. I certainly enjoy Van Morrison, but tears on cue at a particular phrase?

Then, I began slowly rereading Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese and found myself with tears pooling at something similar in Sonnet VI:

“…The widest land / Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine / With pulses that beat double. What I do / And what I dream include thee, as the wine / Must taste of its own grapes….”

As I mused on the big emotions that I welled up within me in these two very different pieces of art, I realized that both help explain what union with Christ feels like.

The Mystery of Union with Christ

I remember exactly where I was sitting when the reality of union with Christ first started to sink into my mind and then my soul decades ago—that is how significant this theological reality is to me. After years of trying to imitate Christ, I learned that, through the Spirit, I get to participate in the very life of Christ right now.

While I continue to treasure and explore the glorious reality of union with Christ, I still struggle to comprehend and receive such a soaring offer. How does it work that I am here on this dusty globe and yet simultaneously seated with Christ above (Colossians 3: 1–4). What bearing does that have on my daily duties and the moments of my mundane days? How can I be two places at once? How can he be there, seated at the right hand of the Father, and also hidden up in the hearts of hundreds of thousands of believers on earth at once?

Both Van Morrison and Barrett-Browning’s phrases about two heartbeats in sync even though thousands of miles apart (which were both clearly referring to his experience of human love) help me to get hints of what union with Christ might feel like and mean.

As a mother, I have hints of the solidarity and union resulting from love. Last week, while my son was at a significant and highly competitive track meet in Los Angeles, I felt that twinned heartbeat. A hundred plus miles away from him, my heart pounded with his in nervousness, adrenaline, and anticipation. It felt like I was on the starting line with him. My life is wrapped up with the life of my children: their joys become my joys, their sorrows, my sorrows. To a degree.

As a wife, I have moments of such deep connection with my husband. When he is out of town at a significant event, it is as if we are both attending said event. Love binds us to the beloved in such a way that distance does not diminish our connection or closeness. The stronger the love, the stronger the connection even when we are physically apart.

The Pain of Parting & The Joy of Reunion

Jesus knows the pain of parting and the joy of reunion with the beloved. In the Incarnation, he left the secure, immediate embrace of the Trinity to become a man. He who had known no physical distance and had never felt the strange separation of time stepped into time and space. Though he was deeply attached to the Father throughout his earthly life (Luke 2: 49; Mark 1:35; John 7: 16–19 and 11: 41–42), he longed to be back bodily present with his Father. We hear this longing in the high priestly prayer when Christ says, “I glorified you on earth, having accomplished the work that you gave me to do. And now, Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had with you before the world existed” (John 17: 4–5).

Jesus’s heart beat as if with that double pulse of love that Browning captures in her sonnet to her future husband.

Maybe more shocking than the double pulse Jesus felt with the Father is the double pulse he felt with his disciples. Jesus felt the pain of departing from his friends. We hear his sorrow amid his resoluteness to return home to the Father:

“Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And If I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also” (John 14: 1–4).

As his followers who have not seen him, yet love him, we daily feel the distance from him whose presence is our true home (1 Peter 1:8 and 2:11). Yet, in union with Christ, we are invited into that mysterious double pulse that is nearness to God despite distance. Christ has attached himself in covenant love to us. He is with us in our sorrows, in our joys, and in everything in betwixt. He who has numbered both the hairs on our heads and the numbers of our days can hear out heartbeat from a thousand miles. Despite our distance from him, our hearts can beat with the double pulse of devoted love until we are fully and forever united in the New Heavens and the New Earth.

Followers, Not Admirers

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We are approaching Easter weekend. Outside of Christmas, these days commemorating the death and resurrection are among the most approachable and accessible to the watching world.

For at least a few days, even those who would not consider themselves devout slow down to admire Jesus. While this is a beautiful access point, it was never Jesus’s end goal in going to the Cross. In the words of Soren Kierkegaard, Jesus does not want admirers, he wants followers.

Born & Bored on the Same Day

People love a show; we always have. I remember being a little girl and watching the circus train arrive in our small town on the Jersey Shore. We would watch them unload the animals and scatter hay all over the muddy, trodden grounds. There was such a sense of eager anticipation that I thought my tiny heart would burst.

Entirely too much candy and popcorn would be consumed. There would be a few minutes of wonder. And then, we would head home and promptly forget about it for a calendar year.

Annie Dillard notices a similar tendency in the human heart in her book Teaching A Stone to Talk. She describes the crowds of people she joined to watch a full solar eclipse on Mount Adams. She remembers the screams of wonder, shock, and delight as the sun went dark. As shocking as it was to experience something so other-worldly together, she was equally shocked at how quickly everyone moved on:

“I remember now: we all hurried away. We were born and bored at a stroke. We rushed down the hill. We found our car; we saw the other people streaming down the hillsides; we joined the highway traffic and drove away.”

I fear that my heart often responds the same to the events of Easter each year: the build up, the anticipation, the emotion, the wonder, the disassembling and moving on.

We dress up; we prepare an extra full worship band; we up our signage game. Then we move on as admirers rather than pick up our crosses as followers. We are tempted to treat the resurrection of Christ as a day worth noting rather than the revolutionary day that it is. This day we remember, this day when a dead Savior breathed again, conquering death, this day demands a lifelong response not a check box on a response card.

Followers vs. Admirers

Pastor/poet George Herbert captures this conundrum we face at Easter so well in his poem “Easter (II)” :

“Can there be any day but this, 
Though many suns to shine endeavor?
We count three hundred, but we miss:
There is but one, and that one ever.”

An admirer says this day is significant and moves on. A follower says there is no day but this. According to Kierkegaard, “An admirer…keeps himself personally detached. He fails to see that what is admired involves a claim upon him.” He goes on to say the following convicting words about admirers of Christ:

“The admirer never makes any true sacrifices. He always plays it safe. Though in word he is inexhaustible about how highly he prizes Christ, he renounces nothing, will not reconstruct his life, and will not let his life express what it is he supposedly admires. Not so the follower. No, No. The follower aspires with all his strength to be what he admires.”

I long to be a follower, not a mere admirer. I don’t want to be born and bored on the same day. I want to be born and bored through by the reality of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection.

In the words of the Apostle Paul, “If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied. But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead” (1 Corinth. 15:19-20).

The right response to the life, death, and resurrection of Christ is to hidden in life, death, and resurrection:

“I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I live now in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave himself for me” (Galatians 2:20).

My Prayer for the Upcoming Political Season

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May your political conversations be few, fruitful, and face-to-face.

Simple, but far from easy. I am a preparer and a pre-griever, which is to say that I am already feeling tired and weak from the political season that has not even happened yet. As I am prayerfully preparing and leading my heart and the hearts of my children for another polarizing presidential election, I am going back to the very basics.

A Conversation vs. A Communication

When we enter into any conversation, let alone a political one, we need to remember that we are not merely dealing with inert information. We are two sentient beings attempting to form and be formed with information. We are concerned with the person receiving and processing the information, not merely getting the information out there.

In his essay “Local Knowledge in the Age of Information.” Wendell Berry offers helpful insights regarding the nature of conversation. Conversation, he says, differs from a mere communication which can be (and, often is, one-sided). Communication (think news report) requires an active sender and a passive receiver. Conversation, on the other hand, requires two active, independent, yet interacting parties. Berry continues with the following:

“A conversation, unlike a ‘communication,’ cannot be prepared ahead of time, and it is changed as it goes along by what is said. Nobody beginning a conversation can know how it will end. And there is always the possibility that a conversation, by bringing its participants under one another’s influence, will change them, possibly for the better.”

I think that many of us enter into political “conversations” hoping and expecting them to be a communication. Getting our terms right from the beginning will help us enter into conversations when, and only when, we are truly ready for honest human communication with another (who has a story, a view, a perspective, and an opinion that are not the same as my own).

Three Types of Conversations

Speaking of conversations, I was greatly helped by a mentor, Dr. Dave Friese, about the three different types of conversations: competitive, informative, and connecting.

As a mother of three very argumentative and competitive young men, I can explain competitive conversation with great expertise. In these conversations, we are not necessarily listening for understanding but rather listening only to load our conversational guns in response. These conversations are marked with passion, one-upping, and a quick cadence. They have their place. Anyone who has sat through the theatrical wonder that is our family debate between soccer or baseball as the harder sport can attest to the entertainment value of competitive conversations, but I most certainly don’t think they are helpful when it comes to politics.

Informative conversations are less heated and more factual. Genuine listening is happening, but the goal is the passing on of information and facts. I think of my children as they prepare for their informative speeches (“How to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich”). Hearts are rarely engaged, though many facts are flying. Sometimes in these conversations, being right is more important than being loving, present, or gentle.

The last type of conversation, connecting conversation, is the level where real change and transformation tends to happen. We rarely get here in conversations, because in order to have a connecting conversation, both parties must feel seen, soothed, safe, and secure. The prerequisites of trust and care provide a safety net for honest, vulnerable sharing even when we disagree with the other sitting before us. The goal is mutual understanding, even when we do not agree and may not ever.

In a digitized world where competitive and informative conversations are our constant background (and foreground if you allow push notifications), connecting conversations take work, time, energy, and maturity. That’s why my prayer for this upcoming political season is that your political conversations be few and face-to-face. We can’t have connecting conversations online. We can’t have them with everyone we meet. We enter into them at-will with great care and caution. We understand that connecting conversations are holy ground where another is vulnerably before me as I am before them.

Fruitful Conversations vs. Empty Arguments

We cannot enter into a political conversation without admitting our biases. To say that you are not biased is akin to saying that the laws of gravity don’t apply to you. It is a prideful and unproductive starting point to deny that you have preconceived notions and tend to see the world through your preconceived notions. In his helpful book The Righteous Mind, Jonathan Haidt offers research that proves that humans are biased to receive only the information that supports their preconceived notions. The facts are not the naked facts, rather, they are bathed in our biases. Left to ourselves and our intuitions, we see what we want to see, and we hear what we want to hear.

Fruitful conversations can only take place when we are honest with our starting point and our biases. Conversations that lead to the fruit of the Spirit, to considering others better, to deeper understanding about another with whom we do life, are profitable and productive. Yet, not all conversations with all people on all topics are profitable and fruitful.

Even this morning, I was reading Paul’s words to Titus who had a tall task as a pastor in Crete. He was surrounded by a Cretan culture of empty-talk and arguments around genealogies and myths. In this culture, Paul reminded Titus to judge the root by the fruit. If conversations with someone continued to end in “foolish controversies, genealogies, dissensions, and quarrels about the law,” which were “unprofitable and worthless,” Titus was to speak to them once or twice and then walk away (Titus 3:8-11). Paul had similar advice to Timothy, saying, “Have nothing to do with foolish, ignorant controversies; you know that they breed quarrels. And the Lord’s servant must not be quarrelsome but kind to everyone, able to teach, patiently enduring evil, correcting his opponents with gentleness” (2 Timothy 2:23–25).

As we prepare for the upcoming political season, it is my prayer that our political conversations would be few, fruitful, and face-to-face. May Paul’s words to Timothy and Titus ring louder than election ads or controversy-cookers. May Paul’s personal prayer request for the Colossians pass right along to us in this political boiling pot: “Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person” (Colossians 4:6).

Lessons from the Leper: The Courage to Come

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Thanks for advances in modern medicine and germ theory, most of us have never experienced leprosy. However, our culture knows a thing or twenty about shame; thus, it is not hard for us to imagine the stigma and subsequent shame that lepers lived under in the ancient world. In biblical times, lepers had to mark their foreheads so everyone knew to stand aloof from them. As if that were not enough, they were also required to cry out, “Unclean” when walking in public. One cannot help reading Matthew’s account of Jesus healing a leper with an empathetic lens. Today, as I was studying Matthew 8: 1-4, I was blown away by the courageous vulnerability and risking faith of the unnamed leper.

Lessons from the Leper’s Approach

To be a leper willing to approach anyone seems like a massive feat in and of itself. Imagine all the terrible, traumatic experiences a leper would have associated with past attempts at intimacy or friendship. I bet that leper’s amygdala recorded hundreds of looks of disgust, fear, and contempt from past attempts at approach. Yet, when we meet him in Matthew’s gospel, he approaches Jesus himself just when word of Jesus’s authority and power were reaching their height. One would think that the “great crowds” mentioned by Matthew would be a strong deterrent for a leper’s approach. But not so our leper. He came anyway.

“And behold, a leper came to him and knelt before him, saying, ‘Lord, if you will, you can make me clean” (Matthew 8: 2).

The Greek captures his approach with more clarity and power than the English translation. The leper came (proserchomia) and knelt (proskuneo) before Jesus. Proserchomai is translated “to approach” or “to draw near,” both of which are powerful acts of courageous faith for one scarred by rejection and shaped by the distance of others. The leper very likely had a payload of poor past experiences that he had to push through to even draw near to Jesus. Yet, he presented himself vulnerably before the one whom he rightly recognized as kurios (master; lord; one with absolute rights and authority).

Not only did he present himself, he prostrated himself before this kurios. The Greek word translated knelt (proskuneo) paints a powerful picture of one paying homage to another by laying prostrate and kissing his feet. Putting these two words together, we begin to see in technicolor the faith of this leper. First, he approached him, then he submitted himself vulnerably before him.

I have never had the extreme experiences of a leper, but I know the fear of overcoming past pain and shame enough to approach someone in full awareness of the places of weakness and vulnerability you bring with you. It takes courage, faith, and an awareness of the character of Jesus to bring our real selves before him with real desire.

The leper doesn’t actually ask Jesus anything. He comes with a strong theological statement: “Lord, if you will, you can make me clean” (Matthew 4:2). Here, again, the Greek word makes the story come alive. The Greek word thelo, translated “will,” literally means “to desire”, “to wish, or “to intend.” There are other Greek words for “will” that have less heart and affection to them, but the leper used thelo which connotes a deep desire, even a delight.

The leper essentially says, “If it’s your pleasure, you can make me clean.” What a gutsy, theologically-informed patient is our leper friend.

Jewish minds knew well the Psalms, so this leper likely grew up hearing and maybe even memorizing “Our God is in the heavens; he does all that he pleases” (Psalm 115:3). The leper was no fool; he recognized in Jesus an authority on earth who had power and authority to do whatever pleased him.

And so he came, bowed, and vulnerably brought his desire before Jesus. When is the last time you tried that in prayer?

Lessons from Jesus’s Response

While I learned from the leper’s approach, I wept at Jesus’s response.

“And Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, saying, ‘I will; be clean” (Matthew 4:3).

The leper stretched out of his comfort zone to approach Jesus vulnerably; Jesus responded in kind. He stretched out his hand and touched the untouchable. Both his touch and his words were signs of healing and reassurance. Once again, the Greek enlivens this short, powerful moment of encounter. The word ekteino, translated “stretched,” can also be translated “to extend,” “to reach,” or “to cast forth as an anchor.”

Jesus extended himself toward the one who approached him with vulnerable, raw faith. He stretched forth to meet him. He delighted to reassure him of his willingness and power.

When we vulnerably come to Jesus in trust and submission, we can trust that he will stretch himself to meet us. Even when it is not his will to meet our request with the same response he gave the leper, we can be assured that he greets us with welcome. He hears our requests; he notices and names our desire, even when our desires don’t align with his.

When we stretch our faith by bringing our real selves into his presence, he stretches towards us. When we extend trembling hands with our fears or needs or desires, he extends a love-scarred hand to receive them (even when he seems to say no).

We have a purview that the leper didn’t have when he approached Jesus. We live on the other side of the Cross. As such, we know that Jesus vulnerably laid his desires out before his father in Gethsemane but ultimately chose the Father’s will that we might come into his presence freely, boldly, and regularly with great familiarity and reverence (Hebrews 4: 14-16).

I don’t know about you, but I need courage to come (and keep coming) to the presence of the Lord. I needed the lesson learned from a leper today.

Scarcity & Abundance (lessons learned from the Cereal Police)

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My older sons fight for a very strange office in our household: the cereal police.

The cereal police plays the important role of making sure that no one person is hogging too much of whatever cereal is the most coveted brand of the month. This self-appointed officer can seemingly measure exact portions and can tell, with only a slight glance at a bowl, if someone has crossed the line. If said person has used too much cereal or had too many bowls of said cereal at one sitting or even used a few too many splashes of milk, the officer will most assuredly step in wielding his authority.

Usually, a slight altercation occurs upon accusation and the real authorities are awoken to mitigate the damage. Shaken from my semi-slumbering state,  but aware enough to predict exactly what is happening, I immediately respond with something to the tune of the following statement:

“There is plenty of cereal. We live in abundance, not scarcity. We do not have to be afraid. If the cereal runs out, I will buy more,  as I always do. Your parents knows what you need and like and you can trust them to provide.”

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Scarcity and Abundance

As silly as this sounds, the continual appearance of cereal police role is a source of spiritual conviction in my own life. You see, I have to remind myself all the time that our God is a God of abundance, not scarcity.

I fear that there is not enough blessing to go around; not enough space in the infinite heart of our God to make room for all of His children. Even worse than questioning the depth of His pantry, I begin to question His heart and intentions. Inevitably, I am tempted to believe the same insidious lies that hooked our forefather and foremother in the garden: God is withholding from me; I need to get my own; I cannot trust His heart and intentions toward me.

Just as I attempt to point our scarcity-fearing hearts towards God’s abundant provision and love, Moses wrestled with leading a people who continually believed the lie of scarcity.

In his last address to God’s people, he was quick to remind God’s people of His ample provision for them, even in a land of real scarcity of resources and water.

And you shall remember the whole way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness that he might humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep his commandments or not. and he humbled you, causing you to hunger and fed you with manna, which you did not know, nor did your fathers know, that he might make you know that man does not live by bread alone but man lives by every word that comes from the mouth of the lord. Your clothing did not wear out on you and your foot did not swell these forty years (Deuteronomy 3:2-4).  

But he also went beyond the physical provision to point out the nature and intentions of Yahweh, the abundant God.

Know then in your heart that, as a man disciplines his son, the Lord your God disciplines you. So you shall keep the commandments of the Lord your God by  walking in his ways and fearing him. For the lord your God is leading you into a good land, a land of brooks of water, of fountains and springs, flowing out in the valleys and hills, a land of wheat and barley, of vines and fig trees and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey, a land in which you will eat bread without scarcity, in which you will lack nothing (Deuteronomy 3:5-9). 

When Abundance Experienced Scarcity

The Israelite’s clothes did not wear out and their feet did not swell, even in the long wilderness wandering that they had brought upon themselves in their own disobedience. But there was one who always obeyed,  who always trusted the good intentions of the Father, who always lived not by bread alone but by the very words that came from God’s mouth.

His clothes were torn in jest by mocking soldiers. His feet swelled with fluids and blood as they nailed to the cross of our shame. Because Christ, the Son of Abundance experienced scarcity at the Place of the Skulls, we can trust God’s heart toward us.

Our God is a plenty-dropping ploughman.

The Plenty-Dropping Ploughman

His plenty-dropping hand
Must first plough the ground,
Before He can rightly scatter
The seeds that will abound. 

Lord, my heart is all disturbed;
What once was neat now is not.
These fields are lying fallow,
All with muddiness is besot.

Good ploughman, teach me,
To trust your proven ways,
To believe you’ll bring harvest
More rich through long delays. 

Death before life; Cross before crown,
This is the pattern our Christ set down. 

Ashen yet Adored

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Having grown up in the Catholic Church, I grew accustomed to getting ashes smudged on my forehead to signify the beginning of Lent (which is to the Passion Week what Advent is to Christmas). In those early years, Lent meant a chance to get out of classes more so we can attend more masses. It also meant that as we walked in our matching plaid skirts to mass, we all talked about what we were going to “give up” for Lent. There were always the humorous “I’m going to give up homework” and “I’m giving up chores;” however, the more sincere vowed to give up sugar, soda, or television shows.

Catholic writer Flannery O’Connor perfectly captures how I feel about my Lenten experiences in a letter of reflection to a friend.

“What one has a born catholic is something given and accepted before it is experienced. I am only slowly coming to experience things that I have all along accepted.”

For me, Lent was given and accepted long before it was understood or truly experienced. While I am no longer attending the Catholic Church, I am thankful for the liturgical foundation it laid in my life.

Ashen

Historically, Lent is celebrated during the 40 days before Easter, mirroring Jesus’s 40-day temptation in the wilderness (Luke 4). Celebration is a strong word, as the purpose of the feast is to prepare our hearts for the coming Passion Week of Christ. Lent is about remembering God’s holiness and our sinfulness; it is about seeing our weakness and needing God’s strength. It is about making space to see to our need for God – the very need for which Christ set his face to Jerusalem.

Lent is typically kicked off by Ash Wednesday. As I have been reflecting on why Ash Wednesday, the Lord has had me thinking about the purpose of ashes in the Old Testament. Throughout the Old Testament, sack clothes, shaved heads, and/ or donning ashes were to be outward signs of an inward repentance or grief (Genesis 37:34; Job 16:15; Lamentations 2:10; Nehemiah 9:1).

While our church won’t be smudging actual ashes on foreheads tomorrow evening, we will be sharing about our need to see our sin and to repent.

Throughout the Scriptures, those who see or encounter God automatically both see and despise their sin.

In Isaiah 6, we see the prophet encounter the living God and reflexively say, “Woe ie me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” (Isaiah 6:5).

In a similar moment in the New Testament, when Peter begins to realize who Christ may be, he responds in a similarly reflexive way.

But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord” (Luke 5:8).

After God gave Job the “Come to Jesus” conversation of a lifetime filled with powerful rhetorical questions, Job responds much like Isaiah and Peter.

I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted…I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eyes see you; therefore, I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes (Job 42:2, 5-6).

In some ways Lent is an attempt to reverse engineer this reflexive response to seeing Jesus. We create time and space to see and identify our sin, donning proverbial ashes and sack cloth. We do so, not to be ascetic, but to help us see our need for the Savior whose death and resurrection we are preparing to celebrate.

Adored

What Isaiah, Job, and Peter did not know in the instances above is that we are ashen, yet we are adored.

Because Christ climbed the hill of Calvary, we are lifted up from our hill of ashes. Because Christ was stripped of his clothes, we are clothed in his robes of perfect righteousness.

In Lent, we make space for the ashes and the sack cloth so we can more fully recognize and rejoice in the salvation that Jesus secured for us through his life, death, and resurrection.

Isaiah prophesied of this reality when he proclaimed, “For the Lord comforts Zion; he comforts all her waste places and makes her wilderness like Eden, her desert like the garden of the Lord; joy and gladness will be found in her, thanksgiving and the voice of song” (Isaiah 51:3).

David also hinted at the reality of our being both ashen and adored when he wrote, “As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are but dust” (Psalm 103: 13–14).

This Lent, some of us are acutely aware of our ashen-ness and our dustiness. We know our sins which are ever before us (Psalm 51: 3). We need to ask the Lord to remind us what he as the incredible Artist, can do with ashes. If street artists can make beautiful pictures from charcoal, imagine what the Lord of the Universe, the source of all beauty and creativity can do with ash.

Others of us may need a fresh reminder of our ashen side. We may have unwittingly been shaped by the prevailing notions of the day (all the self-sins: self-reliance, self-confidence, self-assurance, and myriad others), thus needing a fresh reminder of our limitation, weakness, sin, and dependence.

Whether you don ashes tomorrow or not, I pray that the Lord would freshly remind you that you are both ashen and adored.